


Last Light Of A Dying Star

by blueberrysebby



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bodyswap, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kinda, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, No Smut, Not Really Character Death, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Suicide, aziraphale's eyes, but not really, i felt depressed, of sorts, space, two morons talking it out after 6000 years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 11:16:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20045092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberrysebby/pseuds/blueberrysebby
Summary: I felt sad and spent the night writing this. Then I was tired, but not sad anymore. I love them to bits.





	Last Light Of A Dying Star

He had a pair of long black rubber gloves, a pair of tongs and a bucket in a small cupboard where he usually stored the plant mister. He had bought all three on the same day Aziraphale had given him the little tartan bottle of holy water. Had checked on the gloves once in a while to make sure they didn’t go brittle. Had kept it all for a single purpose. But all of that was before today, and before yesterday. He remembered that sunny day back in 1862 when he’d first asked Aziraphale for it, and how his reaction had made him angry, sad – but mostly, and overwhelmingly, touched. Aziraphale had feared for him, for his life. That was his reason for the denial. Back then, despite Aziraphale turning down his request, Crowley almost started to cherish the memory as one showing him that Aziraphale cared about him. More than he usually let show, perhaps. And it led Crowley to hope for something, he didn’t even quite know what – except that it was something he would never admit to anyone. Not even himself.

It was a long time since then. Not technically for their perceptions, but in terms of events, insights, answers. Even after 6.000 years, one and a half centuries could still teach one the things that mattered.

Crowley gently shoved aside the Mona Lisa sketch, unlocked the safe and removed the tartan flask from the pitch-black cavity in the concrete wall. His hands were bare.

On his desk there still lay spread the pages of the atlas, Alpha Centauri on top. He turned it over with one hand when he walked past. He placed the bottle on the pile and slowly proceeded to the kitchen to fetch a crystal wine glass. In the last moment however, his glance fell on the top rack of the cupboard, and his hand stopped in mid-air, shaking almost imperceptibly. Untouched since when he had acquired them in an antique shop in the 1950s, there were two filigree tea cups, one with tiny roses wrought around its almost translucent brim, the other with forget-me-nots. He set the wine glass back in its place and threaded a finger through the handle of the forget-me-not cup. Its fragility made him tremble; one wrong touch would break it. These were cups to be touched with gentle hands in thin white cotton gloves, placed softly on an old bible while filled with hot chocolate, and the drinker’s bespectacled nose sunk almost as deep as his thoughts into another, age-old book. But they had outlived their original and only purpose. Might as well break them now. Turn them back into stardust. Stardust. Crowley caught his wobbly lower lip between his teeth and returned to the office, cup in hands.

_You know what to do. Do it with style._

He unscrewed the flask with closed eyes. There’s nowhere to go, he had said. Like mostly, he had been right. Without him, there was nowhere to go. Now, together, there would have been an entire universe, Kingdom Come or not. Nebulae and black holes, stars and planets, endless emptiness. Colours they didn’t know existed. Planetary sounds. An infinity to hide inside.

Alone, there was nowhere. Nowhere without him. Crowley muttered a curse at himself for the thought, but what did it even matter now?! Usually he drowned his emotions in smoothness and loud Queen songs, but this wasn’t the time for that. Not anymore. His knees suddenly felt weak and he sank into his chair. Meanwhile his hands had started shaking so badly he could hardly hope to pour the water without spilling. 6,000-year-old habit made him take a deep breath. He sought thoughts to give him an edge of anger to clamber to. Holier-than-thou. That only hurt him more because it was true again. He closed his eyes again, tried to remember another in an uncounted mass of times how it had been before he had fallen. But it was like the trauma of birth, left no recollection of anything that had been before. Aziraphale was the closest he got to what had been before. But the angel still believed, trusted, hoped. He was holier than anyone for that. Not to blame. Crowley thought of his eyes when he tilted the tartan bottle and started pouring its contents into the cup. After 6,000 years, he still hadn’t come to a conclusion about their colour. Maybe it was one of those colours that otherwise only existed in space. The last light of a dying star.

He squeezed his lids shut, his inner gaze so fixed on the potential stardust in Aziraphale’s eyes that he didn’t even take note of the tear escaping from underneath his lashes. In all of his 6,000 years as a demon, he had never cried. Demons did not cry.

What more was the unmaking of a single demon than a wave in a teacup?!

Crowley’s slender fingers let go of the flask, trailed down its patterned side of melamine.

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

How much slower could one go than they had? Even without a particular aim?

Back in 1941 in the ruins of the church, he had put as much hope in Aziraphale’s smile as Aziraphale put in God’s plan. But it all didn’t matter now. Zira – Crowley’s unruly mind would sometimes call him that, as though to evoke a non-existent domesticity - was an angel and always would be. What Crowley saw in him, had always seen in him, in the moments of mischievous flicker in his eyes, was nothing more than a reflection of himself, before everything had gone down. And it was devious, disgusting, cruel to even put hope in that. For wasn’t that what he was ultimately hoping – for Aziraphale to fall? Hanging around the wrong people, like himself. A tiny thing done wrong. And then the abyss. The pain, the first thing he remembered, his whole body burning like each pore of his body was drenched in acid, then poured with boiling sulphur and set on fire. No. Not Aziraphale. It was best if he just ended himself. Like that, he would pull one last trick on both heaven and hell. Heaven because he would no longer play the part of scapegoat, of the guilty – and hell because he would not allow them to soil Zira’s purity through his own hellish influence. It was the best for everyone.

Once more, Crowley slithered a finger through the cup’s vine-like handle, and it felt cool and smooth, almost like a ring.

He thought of the first day with Aziraphale on Eden’s walls, just after the moment Crowley had, for the first time, felt this odd softness inside himself upon hearing Zira’s sword story and they stood up there, just the two of them, behind them a perfect garden, before them the desert, and the angel’s wing over his head in the roughening wind.

The cup was cold, he could smell it, thin like a blade.

They had stood in the first rain of the world together. What would he give for one more moment of –

water against his lips. Teeth tongue cheeks throat and swallow. Everything drew into the coldness, fell away, hurtless, weightless, ineffably simple.

Bursts. Bursts of light. Bursts of light all around him. Eyes of souls long dead, all colours one could imagine and all one could not. Fogs of stars and dust near and far, held in place by the omnipresent, omnipotent blackness. In some places even the blackness was swallowed by something darker yet, and Crowley wondered what a being would have such eyes. All was still, or so it seemed, for if you listened closely, planets were humming everywhere. It had been his very own idea to make the planets hum. Now they were ultra-slow-motion vibrating in the soundwaves of ‘Somebody To Love’. Crowley suddenly fell like into an abyss within himself and gasped at the utter empty sensation it caused. His eyes seemed to suddenly encompass all of the universe at once, and it was all vanishing within him but he felt all the emptier. Planets and stars and eternities coursed through him. And as the utter nothingness closed around him all that was left suddenly was a scream of an uncountable number of celestial bodies, and then another burst, a reverse burst, and suddenly he knew.

The colour. It must never, could never be anywhere, not out here, not anywhere but in Aziraphale’s eyes.

Crowley’s shone like a thousand suns when they flew open, his whole body shaking, cold-hot, and fell right into this colour.

_Crowley_.

“Crowley!”

Everything tumbled into place and he could feel the softness of the voice. Softness all around him. His body shook heavily.

“…Angel?”

His voice was barely a whisper.

“You were screaming.”

His eyes went into focus and there was the angel, his face inches from his own, eyes wide and worried.

Crowley coiled up, shook again and sobbed softly:

“Dream, Angel. Just a dream.”

He closed his eyes for a while, only to open them again at the distinct smell of hot cocoa, to the sight of a filigree cup purfled with forget-me-nots in soft angel hands. The other one stretched out towards Crowley.

“Sit up and drink a sip, it’ll help.”

“What time is it?” muttered Crowley while ruffling a hand out from underneath the duvet. Then, hesitantly, he reached for Aziraphale’s and let him help him sit up.

“Not even dawn.” The angel was fully clad but looked slightly dishevelled.

“Did I…did it wake you?” Crowley asked while Aziraphale sank onto the mattress beside him.

“I was, uh, reading in your office. The atlas. All about Alpha Centauri.” He nodded encouragingly while handing the demon the cup. “Although, er, actually…I may have had a little nap just then.” He smiled and their eyes met as Crowley started to slurp a sip of cocoa.

“What was wrong, anyway?”

“You know, Angel, I’ve never had hot cocoa before, actually”, Crowley mumbled into the cup between sips. The angel’s eyes widened. “And how do you like it, then?” A tiny curious smile graced his lips.

“It’s…actually delicious.”

The angel suddenly reached beside himself to the nightstand and slurped from his own, rose-adorned cup.

“Isn’t it?!” He smiled brightly at the demon. “But I still want to know –“

“Angel”, Crowley said with a little croak in his voice, “you’ve got…” A drop of cocoa had got caught on Aziraphale’s cupid’s bow. Crowley awkwardly lifted his hand, not sure if just to gesture or to actually do something about it. Before he could decide, the tip of the angel’s tongue poked out to collect the droplet. Crowley uttered a little helpless “huh”.

“Thanks”, said the angel. “But you’re not diverting me from my question. What nightmares does a demon have that make him scream like that?” Aziraphale’s brows were knitted together in worry.

“It was nothing, really, I just –“

“Crowley. I’ve known you for 6,000 years, and I’ve never heard you scream like this. And you’re a demon, mind you. I’ve heard your lot are generally rather inclined to scream.”

Crowley sputtered and wanted to take another sip of cocoa out of sheer exasperation, but the cup was empty. He stared helplessly at the duvet, pouting. But then he realized that maybe this was the moment he had been waiting for for more or less 6,000 years. They had averted Armageddon together, but it wasn’t all solved just from that, not in every way. Many things had changed. And he needed to talk, otherwise how would he ever not fear losing his angel again? Wait. _His _angel. Crowley’s mind tried to go into reverse, but then his mouth just took over:

“I had a dream about yesterday, and the day before”, he blurted out, “but it was all different. I remembered our talk at the band stand, and when I dropped by the, uh, bookshop yesterday to apologize…well whatever.” He sighed and looked nervously up at the angel, whose eyes were wide and receptive. That didn’t help much, but what was he to do… “And in my dream, instead of attacking Ligur and Hastur with the holy water, I…”

Aziraphale’s face scrunched up a little and Crowley had a hard time trying to concentrate.

“I drank it. Killed myself.” He swallowed, then quickly continued: “But then I was suddenly in space or something, and I swallowed the whole universe, or that’s what it felt like at least, and I think then I screamed, because it was kinda painful and…empty.” He did not mention the whole part about the angel’s eyes – about _why_ it had felt so empty - on purpose. Although it seemed at the same time the most important part.

Aziraphale looked shocked, his mouth a slight bit ajar, but also extremely worried and pitiful.

“Did you ever seriously think of doing that? The drinking part, I mean?” Crowley thought that his voice sounded shaky.

“More than just once, Angel”, Crowley admitted and cast down his eyes.

“What kept you from…doing it, then?”

“Don’t laugh now, but…”

“Why would I laugh, Crowley, I –“

“…because I couldn’t stop hoping.”

“Hoping for…what?” the angel asked suspiciously.

Crowley swallowed. Blinked. Swallowed again. Then he finally couldn’t bear it any longer.

“For you to run off with me, Angel.”

Aziraphale seemed stuck on the brink of saying something for a couple of seconds, then pressed his lips into a tight, straight line and blinked and shook his head lightly. Then suddenly he turned to Crowley and made to say something, but he seemed unable.

“I…” he stuttered, “I – I’m so sorry, Crowley, I…wasn’t ready.”

“Ready for what?” Crowley retorted, dumbfounded.

“For one thing, ready to…well, lose faith, for one thing, in Gabriel and the bunch while at the same time keeping my faith in the Ineffable Plan, which is, of sorts, inevitable –“ He broke off shortly. “But mostly just…ready to run off into the stars with you.” He breathed quickly through his nose. “And I mean, it did pay off in a way, didn’t it? We kept the world.” He shrugged with a little smile, the cup of cocoa, slightly tepid in the meantime, still in his hand.

“We did”, said Crowley. He wondered if the angel was still not quite getting it. “In my dream, you…I mean, there were your eyes. I mean no, they weren’t there, and that was exactly the prob-“ He stopped short and screwed up his face in utter horror at his own incapability of speaking. “There was this bit about your eyes”, he finally said, as though talking about a piece of written work by someone else, “and how their colour isn’t anywhere else in the entire universe except right there in your eyes.” He gasped, not looking at Aziraphale. “What I’m trying to say here is – you mean the world to me, Angel. Or the universe, or something.” He stiffened internally, incredulous that he had just really said that, and tried again to empty his already empty cup.

“Crowley, I…” the angel suddenly started, “that wasn’t very demonic of you to say.” He chuckled nervously. Crowley wanted to just throw his hands up in complete despair and sink into the ground like Ligur and Hastur used to.

But then he felt the angel straighten up next to him and take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry”, he said again and made a long break due to which Crowley first thought that was it. “That was really…dumb…of _me_ to say.” He breathed again. Even if not necessary, it could be helpful, like placebo drugs. “But I said it because I couldn’t possibly say what…what you mean to me, Crowley. I – it’s practically in-“

“Are you going to say what I think you’re going to say?”

“Ineffable?!” The sweetest smile crept onto Aziraphale’s face. Crowley’s eyes were sweating. He smiled back, crooked but just as sweetly.

“You know”, Aziraphale mumbled into the silence, “I think I’m a little tired. Let’s…”

He tilted his head towards the bed.

“Lie down?” asked Crowley.

“Yes”, said the angel, “just for a bit.”

He made to crawl to the other side of the king-size bed.

“Shoes off!” demanded Crowley.

In his full suit complete with tartan bow tie and velvet waistcoat, but now shoe-less, Aziraphale rolled up on the duvet, and Crowley stretched out his long legs beside him.

“Uh, about…the prophecy”, the demon started suddenly.

“Right”, made Aziraphale. “Are you…thinking what I’m thinking?”

A doubtful, insecure smile curled Crowley’s mouth. Then he reached out slowly and took both Aziraphale’s hands.

“Do you think this’ll work?” the angel asked.

“If it doesn’t, at least we’ll die trying”, Crowley replied with something like an encouraging grin. Then they both closed their eyes. And starting from their joint hands, each seemed to melt into the other until they had completely swapped bodies. It took a moment until either of them opened his eyes. Crowley did a scrunchy little thing with his face and coiled up. Aziraphale squeezed his hands and stretched out across the mattress, while a wide smile dimpled his cheeks. He lifted one hand to tug at the tight collar. Then he brought it back down and rolled up Crowley’s knit tie between his fingers.

“My Angel”, said Aziraphale, letting his hand sink onto the duvet.

“My Demon”, replied Crowley.

Have a little crappy piece of original art...

Also, I listened to this song <https://youtu.be/lo_WJgaTzwY> a lot while writing this, I think it's beautiful and soft and fits with this.

Visit me on Tumblr <https://www.tumblr.com/blog/azirafeely> if you like. :)

**Author's Note:**

> I felt sad and spent the night writing this. Then I was tired, but not sad anymore. I love them to bits.


End file.
